A woman goes to bed and dies. Her eyes are now sealed by the weight of the world’s finality. Have you thought about taking them? Right, it's impossible. It’s forbidden. We draw invisible lines around the bodies of the dead, wrapping them in moral codes, even as they lie unknowing, unfeeling. When I die, they will dress me, perhaps in a sweater that still holds the faint scent of my life, or a dress, something that puts me in a more proper version, more presentable. They will choose what reminds them most of me, or what they think would suit me, a final act of remembrance by those who still breathe. But once the lid closes, I will know nothing of their choice. The only thing I have is to know it right now, the certainty of being covered, not naked. Imagine I die tomorrow. My liver, my eyes, my heart—they would still be good, functional, capable of bringing life to another. Yet the law stands firm: we cannot take what is not freely given, even in death. Consent must be explicit, given while the soul still resides within the body. This is the boundary we respect, a moral line drawn to honor the autonomy of the individual, even when their consciousness has faded into the void. But have you ever considered what this means for the living? For relationships, for the unborn? The same moral code that protects the integrity of the dead denies the autonomy of the living woman, pregnant and burdened. If a dead body retains the right to refuse, even when it no longer knows refusal, why should a living woman’s body be governed by laws that deny her the same autonomy? We live in a world where the organs of the dead are untouchable without prior consent, where the sanctity of the deceased body is inviolable unless it has spoken its wishes before the final breath. And yet, a woman carrying life within her is often denied the ultimate choice over her own body, treated as a vessel whose autonomy is stripped by the moral and legal impositions of others. Consider this paradox: a pregnant woman, her body home to another being, is often denied the right to choose, even when that choice is as fundamental as continuing or ending a pregnancy. The unborn have no voice, yet laws rise to protect them, silencing the woman in whose body they grow. Her body, her organs, her life become secondary, subordinated to a potential life that may or may not come into being. If we cannot take from the dead without consent, why do we take from the living without it? The unborn, like the dead, are silent. But where we listen to the silence of the dead, honoring their unspoken rights, we ignore the silence of the unborn, imposing our will upon the living woman instead. To suggest that a woman should be legally permitted to abort until birth is to reclaim this autonomy, to recognize that her body is her own, that her rights do not diminish as life stirs within her. It is to acknowledge that the decision to carry a pregnancy to term is as personal, as profound, as the decision to give away one’s organs after death. Both choices are rooted in the same core principle: consent. A woman’s relationship with her unborn child is complex, intertwined with her body, her life, her future. And yet, this relationship is often dictated by laws that reduce her to a passive participant, her voice overruled by the potential life within her. If we cannot compel the dead to give up their organs, how can we compel the living to give up their bodies? The moral landscape here is treacherous, filled with contradictions that demand reconciliation. The right to choose, to consent, must be upheld for the living as it is for the dead. To deny a woman the right to abort until birth is to place her below the dead in the hierarchy of bodily autonomy. It is to say that her consent matters less, that her body is not her own once it harbors another. In advocating for the right to abort until birth, we are not dismissing the value of the unborn but affirming the greater value of the woman’s autonomy. We are challenging a system that venerates the dead while subjugating the living. It is a call to reframe our understanding of consent, to apply the same respect for bodily autonomy to the living as we do to those who have passed on. The comparison is stark but necessary. If a body can refuse after death, then surely a woman can refuse while alive. The act of birth, like the act of death, is a threshold, a passage. Until that moment, the body of the woman remains hers, inviolate, deserving of the same respect and autonomy we afford the silent bodies of the dead. And if there would have been at least one or two women in the over all discussion what is life, pretty sure, there would be not the same idea as there is right now. In this light, the right to abortion becomes not merely a legal argument but a moral imperative. Just saying. Recognition of autonomy, right? Once given, it cannot be selectively taken away; the sanctity of choice extends to all stages of a body, and a knife I would put in mine, just to prove a point. 
(11/23/24 - 08:10am)